


The Mess That We’ve Become

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bloodplay, Face-Fucking, Frottage, M/M, Mild Blood, Spanking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 20:04:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16311821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: early s11-ish. Dean can’t get rid of Crowley, but it’s fine.





	The Mess That We’ve Become

 

— _The Cincinnati Enquirer, Ohio, February 21, 1947_

 

Dean couldn’t eat a cheeseburger for awhile after Crowley invited him out for one. “Besties” left a bad taste in his mouth.

So does getting face-fucked while Crowley doubles over his head, muttering incomprehensible things into the bits of gel left in his hair—only for Dean to return the favor, snarling out, “God _damn,_ Velma,” when Crowley swallows him all the way down.

Neither keeps him from hunting, but he does keep running out of toothpaste.

And beer.

And patience.

He isn’t sure which bothers him more: the hookups, or the fact that he can’t go long without seeing Crowley before he starts to get antsy.

It’s gotten so bad that Sam’s noticed. He hasn’t said anything, bless and fuck him, but Dean has noticed him noticing—which when you live in and out of one another’s pockets is impossible to miss, and just as obnoxious.

“I can’t tell which I hate more,” Dean says, biting into Crowley’s earlobe while trying to divest him of his insufferable, impeccable black suit jacket. “You, or—”

“Needing me?” Crowley says, shutting him up just long enough by yanking his t-shirt over his head.

“Your fucking face,” Dean breathes, taking both grizzled cheeks in his hands and biting into a kiss.

Crowley finds his belt, yanks the wrong way just to fuck with him because Crowley is _like that,_ then the right way open before Dean can bitch about it, somehow pooling the jeans right to Dean’s ankles with zero effort whatsoever.

“Come now, Squirrel,” he begins, but Dean is already dropping to his knees.

“You first,” he says, biting the button clean off Crowley’s slacks.

It hurts a little more with his humanity back, but he can forgive a little blood in his mouth when it makes Crowley gasp like that.

Plus, the tastes of copper and dick go great together.

(At this point, he won't let anybody tell him what he can and can’t enjoy.)

Dean drags his teeth along Crowley’s length, swirling at the tip, purring when he shoves back down so hard he bruises the back of his throat and Crowley staggers backward with a curse. Crowley stumbles, hits the ground hard, but Dean crawls over him, not letting him push up on his elbows. Giving him no leeway whatsoever.

He lets Crowley fall from his lips and gets right up into his space, bodies aligned like twins in a casket, dicks slip-sliding through blood and spit.

Crowley gets a hand on them both. Dean pins the other one over his head.

There are no words anymore. Just wild eyes and biting kisses and rutting in a frenzy until they come all over one another.

Rinse, repeat. Same time next week.

Dean stumbles back to the bunker and there’s Sam, sitting up with a book. He may as well be wearing granny spectacles. He raises his eyebrows, and his forehead does that thing Dean doesn’t have the patience for. It means talking, and Dean isn’t sure he even has a voice after the paces he just put his throat through.

Nodding, weary, Dean stumps toward the bedrooms and the promise of a long, hot shower.

He hears Sam draw a breath.

There’s no reason to stop. Dean should just keep going. Dean _knows_ he should just keep going, but instead he stops and whirls and snaps, “ _What?”_

Sam blinks at him. “...did you get beer?”

That just makes him even more irate. “No, Sam, I didn’t get beer. Do I need to go do that for you? Maybe grab some tampons and tea?”

Eyebrows rising, Sam makes that stupid face he makes when he knows too much.

“Is that what Crowley—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean snaps. He whirls before his brother can see how red his face feels.

Like his ass two weeks ago. He couldn’t sit right for days.

“Dean…”

“I said, shut up,” he growls, already mostly out of the room.

He’s in the shower and loving it, steam painting the tile and all the mirrors, when Sam catches up to him again.

“I’m gonna go grab something to drink,” he calls from the doorway. “Any preference?”

“You know what I like,” Dean shouts back. His voice is rough. He coughs, and kind of likes the way it feels like there’s still a demon cock in there.

“ _I_ know what you like,” purrs a familiar dark voice that absolutely should not be anywhere near his shower.

Dean jumps. Slides back into a stance, which must look hilarious since he just soaped up his hair and doesn’t actually know karate. He gets a glimpse of a smirk in front of him before Crowley is behind him, pressed up against his naked soapy body all hot and hairy and more appealing than that should ever be.

“Did—did Sam see—” he gasps, but it cuts off in a whine when Crowley’s hand finds his ass. One finger slides effortlessly inside. Dean’s not sure how, but he’s not complaining. Neither is his dick, standing straight out from his body like a street light.

“Please, Dean,” Crowley scoffs. “I’m a professional.”

“Professional pain in my—” Dean says on auto-pilot. His eyes cross. “Oh, yeah…”

Crowley opens him up with the ease of someone who’s done this, oh, about twenty times by now. Maybe more. It’s not like Dean’s been counting. But this is something they haven’t done, Crowley sliding inside him while he’s pressed up against the Men of Letters’ tile, running the entire river through the showerhead. Dean lets his cheekbone grind into the cool porcelain. His fingernails find a seam and dig in.

“Take it,” Crowley hisses, fucking up into him with a vengeance. Like it’s something he’s been missing. Like it’s something he needs.

Neither of them will ever admit it, but they both know they do.

Dean winds up on his knees, sobbing, forehead pressing into his arm as Crowley whales on him from behind. Fucking him rough. Pulling out too quickly, at random, to keep him on his toes and spank his ass raw.

Dean comes untouched. Crowley comes so deep within him he can taste it.

By the time Sam returns _avec_ booze, Dean is face-down in his pillow, snoring, sated.

Fucked in more ways than one.

He can eat cheeseburgers again, but at what cost? He doesn’t have a bestie, he has a fuck buddy he can’t get rid of. One that follows him through the walls. And what’s worse—if it really is at all—Dean likes it. He _likes_ having a stalker that helps him on hunts, who seems to like making him come more than literally anything else. He _likes_ seeing Crowley’s stupid face show up when they least expect him. Dean is having trouble schooling his scowl these days. He still tries to keep up appearances, but… well, Sam, at least, knows exactly what’s going on.

And when things begin to go to shit again, when all of their lives get endangered and don’t stop doing that and people keep dying, for good…

Crowley doesn’t quit. He doesn’t give up on Dean, even when Dean gives up on him.

He doesn’t give up on Sam, either, which just endears him further, the bastard.

Squirrel and Boris, Moose and Natasha—Rowena’s taken a shine to Sam, and he can keep her—against the world and everything above, beneath, and beside it.

The saying, “Life is just one damn thing after another,” is a bitch of an understatement. The damn things overlap. Intertwine. Find him at three a.m. and suck his soul out of his dick in the armchair of the motel room while Sam is snoring five feet away.

Dean drags his nails up Crowley’s back so hard he finds skin and blood stuck in them the next morning.

He’s caught up in a whirlwind of needing to come so badly he can’t breathe, coming so hard his heart stops, and feeling like he’s been coming every day for the past fucking _year._

Now Rowena is giving him knowing looks, too. She can go to Hell and pout there. Her son is the thorn in Dean’s side that he keeps pressing in to relieve the pressure. Dean is the pincushion that keeps Crowley safe. Not from others… them from him.

And Dean is so, so willing to be impaled.


End file.
